Noon day sun
by ephona
Summary: An amazing short story involving the native americans of the west and some of the lives that they lead, with the influences of thier past and present.


Disclaimer. I do not own the story, " what it means to say Phoenix, Arizona." This is just a continuation of it.

Listen to the wind 

Looking out the window at the noonday sun, Thomas watched as the tumbleweeds rolled across the dusty ground of the land. Closing his eyes, he listen to the wind sing softly. Even after all these years the wind was the only one to talk to him. A small smile came to weathered face. Was it the wind that talked to him or him that listened to what the wind had to say to him, he knew not. His eyes shifted to the sleeping figure of his granddaughter, she had fallen asleep and hour or two ago, her textbook lying forgotten in her lap.

Thomas sighed as the old memory of Victor came floating to the surface. The years had been not been kind to Thomas as they had to Victor. At his death he had still been a handsome man. The smile slipped from his lips as he remembered the last day he had seen Victor. He had been at the Trading Post, as it had become his usual spot where he could watch the whole town go about its daily businesses. Flipping though the comics he happen to glance up when a plastic bag blowing in the wind caught his attention form the corner of his eye. And there had been Victor stepping out of his old rusted truck, which had been his fathers before him. A small smile came to his face as he felt himself slip back into his memories of Phoenix, Arizona. He was brought out of his trance at the sound of a body hitting the dirt. Thomas stood in a daze as a shout was raised and people rushed past him. The one person who would sometimes talk to him was gone. His soul flittering away with the wind that Thomas was so fond of. Poor Victor he had died of a heart attack, just like his father after all. It seemed no matter how hard he tired he couldn't out run his fate. The funeral was done two days after, his ashes scattered to the wind. Thomas watched as the ashes blew farther and farther away, chanting a quiet chant under his breath to the sprits to help Victor find his way.

A small snort brought his attention back to his granddaughter, as she flew off the chair and to the side on the ground, her textbook flying across the room. Thomas laughed as she slowly picked herself up and turned to face him with a bashful look in her eyes.

" Ya know I don't think I will ever get tired of seeing you do that." Thomas said slightly out of breath.

" Well don't you think you will ever see it again, _namêšeme, _my grandfather. " The young girl said her back stiffing with mock out rage.

"That is what you have said the last five times, Mai my dear. I believe your parents named you wrong Mai. Instead of Coyote the should have called you Onawa, wide awake." He said with another slight chuckle.

"Well you should have been called Tate, he who talks to much." Mai quickly returned, never failing to rise to the bate of a good argument. She quietly gathered the rest of her textbooks from the floor, as she waited for what her, _namêšeme_, would say next.

" Or perhaps Keklonga, clipped hair." He said softly as though he was pondering it, his face still except for the wicked twinkle in his eyes.

" You'll never let me live down cutting my own hair when I was three will you." Mai said with a sigh settling back down on the chair.

" Well it wasn't just you cutting your hair by yourself, it was you doing it without a mirror and a dull pair of kid scissors, almost cutting your head bare and doing it when your mother was not home to surprise her. But I think the best thing you did was to jump in front of your mother as soon as she walked in the door and shouting that you wanted to cut hair for a job. But that is just my opinion we could always ask your mother though." He said knowingly, almost rubbing his hands together in glee.

" I don't think she has ever forgiven me for scaring her so badly. I mean it really wasn't my fault that she had brought home a cherry pie. She never did get that stain out of the carpet." Their straight faces lasted all of two seconds before they dissolved into laughter.

Their joy was short lived as Thomas began to cough and sputter. Mai quickly rushed to his side. Grapping the inhaler form the bedside table, she gently put her arms around the old body that was her grand father. Trying to ease him up from the painful position he had put himself in during the coughing fit.

Gently she repeated the well-learned instructions to clam down, breath deep and to use the inhaler, and then everything will be all right. A time later Thomas had settled back down in his bed, he turned toward his grand daughter, who sat by his side looking at him with fear in her eyes.

"Don't worry so child I will not leave you yet." Thomas said in a quiet wheezing voice.

" Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable, _namêšeme,_ my grandfather?" Mai asked, trying to remain calm.

"Tell me a story child, what do the winds say to you." Thomas replied closing his eyes as he settled back, his breathing ragged and uneven.

Mai eyes went to the window almost against her will. Watching the dust billow around the yard creating miniature dust devils, she began to speak. It started slow, but soon the story flowed out of her as easy as water over stones. She continued for quiet some time, tears streaming down her face, as she knew that this would be the last story her grandfather would ever hear. The wind blew softly as ever as Mai listened to her beloved grandfathers last breaths of life. As she finished her tell the ragged breathing stopped. Mai slowly turned around; her grand father had gone with a smile upon his face. Mai smiled at the strange sense of irony, the man who had told her stories since she was born was gone, drifted away on a tell of wind and storytellers, it was fitting. Laying a final kiss on his forehead, Mai walked out of the room to call her parents, to take care of the funeral and cremation detail. At the door she turned back for one final look.

" Good bye, _namêšeme,_ we will meet again, with the wind at out backs to guide us, how could it be any different." Mai said, as she shut the door.

"_Goodbye, Mai, my little coyote." _ She could have sworn she heard from inside the room, though people would have just told her that it was the wind she heard. She would just smile and tell them that they were exactly right.

Years later the stories and tell of Thomas Builds-the-Fire were published by his granddaughter, who went on to become a very successful journalist and writer. She now travels around Native American Reservation elementary schools, telling the stories her grandfather had told her. Whenever she sat down in front of the children, she felt her grandfather by her side. A loving hand gentle on her shoulder as she pasted the lives of the ancestor on to a younger generation, so they could keep them close to there hearts, and raise there heads up with pride. As she had been taught to by her _namêšeme._

Well how did you like it? Please review and tell me. I would love to know.


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